Читать книгу Goodbye Lullaby - Jan Murray - Страница 13

Hitting the outskirts of town, she slowed the Jeep and cruised down the wide open main street, so typical of Queensland country towns.

In her weariness, she thought about the hot bath waiting for her at the end of the road. She needed quiet time, a reprieve not simply from the journey, but from everything, all of it. Relaxation and forgetfulness. Whether or not she deserved it, that was all she wanted for the moment. Maybe she did deserve some reward, she reasoned. Mission accomplished.

The Commercial, she knew from her previous stays in Bowen had clean and commodious bathtubs. As old-fashioned and comfortable as the hotel itself, once the lively hub of the renowned cattle and mining town. They learned in History that Bowen was one of the places where the Kanakers were brought as slaves to cut cane. Sister Michael had impressed on them that the South Sea island men were brutally whipped to keep them hunched over, roasting under a scorching tropical sun as they sliced and hauled the cane and were bitten by deadly snakes, all so that girls like them could sweeten their tea. She had taken her tea sans sugar ever since.

The Bowen she cruised into on this lazy afternoon was a different place, a place of rural gentility, a sleepy part of the Whitsundays blessed with long stretches of white coral sands and aqua blue waters, and behind the coastal beauty, vast stretches of outback country.

The proprietor of the Commercial and the staff knew her and were friendly without being obtrusive. The pub might have fallen on hard times but it still had its white timbers and its wrap-around verandas overlooking the harbour to give it its tropical colonial appeal. Inside, its cozy fireplaces and quaint chintzy rooms were a relic of a lost age, like so much of regional Queensland.

She was fond of her State. Saddened that governance of it had fallen into the wrong hands, however. She and her friends had found themselves in some wild dust-ups with Bjelkie-Petersen’s cops. She still bore the scars from the Springboks tour in July. Not physical like Rex, but emotional. It had been horrendous, being dragged along the ground by her hair. Twice the number of police as protesters. Dozens had been hospitalized. She came off lightly, she figured.

She thought about the people in Canberra who would be preparing for tonight’s draw. The big barrel on its stand. The numbered plastic marbles. One worthy citizen––no doubt some conservative old tosser––who would stand alongside the government official and sink his arm into the barrel. The government official who would call out the numbers as they were drawn from the barrel and handed to him by the worthy gentleman. She could see it all so clearly.

Fate. A heartless device. One man, his arthritic fingers lingering over the marbles until, serendipitously, he settled on one and retrieved it, thus accommodating the state's purpose; to fill its quota of young men it would send to war. One man's actions determining so many futures. And she would never know if one of those numbered marbles corresponded to the birth date of her somewhere child.

Tonight would happen. Tomorrow, another day. Bernie saying that even if, against the odds, his number came out it wouldn’t be her fault? That was just blowing hot air and Bernie knew it. Bernie’s child had been taken from her. She had given hers away. Big difference.

She pulled into the curb a hundred yards down the road from the hotel and killed the engine, grateful the phone booth across the road was empty. She was about to get out of the Jeep when she saw a police car turn into the street.

They onto her!

No. It was madness to be this paranoid but she took the precaution of easing the vehicle around the corner and parking it in the lane.

As she waited for what might or might not be a dangerous moment to pass, she wished she smoked. This was a have-a-fag moment. She checked the side mirror and saw the police car cruise past the lane. Her hands sweated. Had they spotted a stranger's jeep loitering in the alley? Would they double back to check it out?

She wondered how she would handle it if they did.

As well as the Commonwealth Police, the Queensland Special Branch wanted her. Her kind got up the noses of Bjelkie’s boys, baton-wielding Neanderthals. Were these local cops aware of the warrant? If so, they would certainly arrest her.

She had clashed with the police in the streets of Brisbane more than once. "Six or more––against the law" was their protest chant. Anymore than six citizens walking down the street together and thanks to Premier Bjelke-Petersen's legislation they could be arrested. And so they marched in sixes and sevens with their banners and some were arrested.

Her civil disobediences ran deep.

Even without her role in facilitating draft resisters, the government could bring charges against her for her TDT escapade. Jamie Richardson was an escaped felon. They could give her four years for any of it. Having gone so public in her resistance to the draft, they’d throw the book at her, a prize catch. A chance at retribution against every grubby long-haired hippie protester drop-out who ever thumbed their nose at the powers that be with their lawlessness. Senator Roland Richardson would be ready with his noose to string her up.

Yes, a cigarette would quell the jitters, she thought and not for the first time considered taking up the habit. Instead, she tried concentrating on breathing in and out deeply while checking in the mirrors for the dreaded police car.

To pass the time and help her relax, she thought about other northern trips to these parts, occasions when she found great camping spots, typically beautiful Australian scenery, and where she met interesting characters.

Two years ago she'd had a weird experience here in Bowen. On a whim she had made a diversion. Someone from her past, an architect, had dropped out and she had heard he was living as an artist on a commune up in the hills. She found him––and the child-of-light sharing the dream with him. A tiny one-room timber shack, glorified with rainbow murals and prayer flags. She shared their sweet wine and then their bed that night. It felt right. Love, peace and harmony. Who were they hurting? No one. Until his young lover broke out her hash cookies pre-dawn.

After a time, she had walked outside the hut to be alone and enjoy the beauty of the night, a scattering of stars across a navy blue sky and a full yellow moon that eventually came down and joined her.

It was a golden orb the size of a house. She tried climbing up and over the orb but it kept rolling back onto her. She knew that if only she could make it to the other side she’d find what she was looking for but the golden orb kept rolling backwards and she kept sliding and losing her grip. And she could hear her mother calling in the distance, from a bus running alongside the orb, yelling at her to jump on. Except, when the bus got closer she saw it wasn’t her mother. It was Jude. Jude was holding a baby in her arms.

She drove away from the commune at daybreak without saying goodbye to the artist or his teenage lover.

After several minutes lost in memory, she realized she had left enough time for the police to have doubled back and come for her if they were of a mind to do it. She would leave the jeep parked here and walk to the Commercial. The phone booth was on the way.